er know all about it. She would never rest till she knew what
she wanted. Ay me, those eager eyes look into angels' faces now, and
maybe into the face of God upon the throne."

"But, Aunt, how could she understand, if she could not hear?"

"God told her somehow, child. He taught her, not we. We did our best,
truly; but our best would have been a poor business, if He had not taken
her in hand. Many a time, before I had finished trying to explain
something to her, that quick little nod would come which meant, `I
understand.' Then she had certain signs for different things. She made
those herself; we never taught them to her. She stroked what she liked,
as man would stroke a dog; when she disliked anything, she made a feint
of throwing her open hand out from her, as though she were pushing it
away. She had odd little ways of indicating different persons, by
something in them which struck her. Master Russell, the Queen's clerk,
and keeper of the royal children, used often to have a sprig of mint or
thyme in his lips as he went about; her sign for him was a bit of stick
or thread between her lips. For the priest, she tolled a bell. For the
Lady Beatrice, her sister, who had a little airy way of putting her head
on one side when anything vexed her, and my Lord Henry de Lacy, who
pouted if he were cross (which he was pretty often)--my little Lady
imitated them exactly. The Lady Alianora flourished her hands when she
spoke; that was the sign for her. For the Lord King, her father, whose
left eyelid drooped over his eye, she pulled her own down. She had some
such sign for everybody. She noticed everything."

"Could she not say one word, Aunt?"

"Yes, she could say three. Verily, sometimes I marvelled if she might
not have been taught more; but we knew not how, and how she got hold of
those three we could never tell."

"What were they?"

"They were, `up,' `who,' and `poor.'"

"Well, she could not do much with those."

"Could she not! `Who' asked all her questions. It answered for who,
what, where, when, how, and why. She went on saying it until we
understood and replied to the sense in which she meant it. `Poor' was
the word of emotion; it signified `I pity you,' `I love you,' `I am
sorry,' and `Forgive me.' And sometimes it meant, `Forgive him,' or
`Don't you feel sorry for her?' And I think `up' served for everything
else."

"Aunt," said Bertha softly, "how did you teach the little Lady to pray?